


A Kiss with a Ficlet is Better than None

by WarMageCentral



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarMageCentral/pseuds/WarMageCentral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets showing every scenario that could possibly get Bahorel and Feuilly together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prompt: “Come over here and make me.”

**Author's Note:**

> This will be added to ocasionally, though I have no set schedule as I rarely ever get prompts. However, if there's anything you'd like to see, either with these boys, paring/gen stuff with the other Amis or works for other fandoms, just drop me a line in the comments or hit me up on tumblr (themarchofmyfairyking)
> 
> As always, enjoy and have a lovely day!

“Come over here and make me.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes before stalking across his roommate’s bedroom, making his way towards the man in question who is currently swaddled in a cocoon of blankets - courtesy of Joly - and giving the occasional pained whimper or snuffle. He’s a pathetic sight, but Feuilly reasons that it’s his own fault that he’s still sick because he _won’t take his fucking medicine._

“Bahorel,” Feuilly says (not growls, he definitely doesn’t growl) as calmly as he can considering the circumstances, “At this point I don’t even care about your fucking cold. But if Joly hears that I didn’t at least _try_ to give you your medicine, it’ll be a repeat of the Great Grantaire Incident of 2011.” He punctuates his statement with a pointed glare aimed towards Bahorel who shudders for a moment, either under the terrifying weight of Feuilly’s stare (hah) or in remembrance of the one time the usually-jolly Joly truly lost his shit on everyone.

When Bahorel’s shuddering doesn’t stop immediately, Feuilly figures it might actually be a symptom of his sickness. Which he doesn’t sympathise for at all. Because Bahorel is being a _child_.

“Feuilly, that stuff tastes like ball sweat–”

“Like you’d know.”

“– And the only way I’d take it is if you, like, put me on a drip or _straddled_ me or something equally as embarra– hey!”

Bahorel is efficiently cut off by Feuilly. Who is, indeed, straddling his friend, without spilling a single drop of the medicine. Because Feuilly is _awesome_.

When he gets over his gloating (mostly), Feuilly pauses and only notices for the first time how close he really is to his friend. During the impromptu mini-tackle, half of the blankets had fallen to the floor leaving him almost flush against Bahorel’s chest. Which is really hot (” _Hot damn!”_ Courfeyrac’s voice supplies in his head which isn’t _helping,_ honestly), probably because of the mild fever. Though, Feuilly supposes, aesthetically, his chest isn’t bad to look at, or anything. There’s the tattoos which, yeah, those are nice. Plus the muscles are, well, noticeably there and maybe they feel–

“Feuilly?” Bahorel rasps and when Feuilly meets his friend’s eyes it’s to find that his pupils are blown and he might be a bit flushed and– Feuilly heart drops ( _no it doesn’t_ ) because, yeah just more fever symptoms. Wordlessly, he pours the medicine into a spoon and puts it in Bahorel’s mouth, who doesn’t struggle, and whose eyes haven’t left Feuilly’s.

He tries to tell himself he didn’t linger longer than necessary before removing the spoon from his friend’s mouth, and tries to tell himself that that image will not be engraved into his mind forever, because it’s _inappropriate, dammit._

Before Feuilly gets the chance to flee the room, Bahorel’s voice stops him when he gets to the door. “Hey, Feuilly,” he starts with a lazy, drooping smile, “We should try that again sometime. Without the spoon.” And, apparently oblivious to his roommate’s gaping, Bahorel swiftly falls asleep. 

Feuilly knows that Bahorel was probably joking, or delirious, and either way he won’t remember this tomorrow. However, for now, Feuilly tells himself that he’s allowed to have this. And it’s this thought he keeps with him when he shuts the bedroom door behind him.


	2. Prompt: "Kiss me"

“Kiss me.”

Feuilly damn near chokes on his drink and Bahorel, unperturbed damn him, slaps his back to clear his airways. Feuilly would thank him, but he’s too busy trying to glare at his friend because, _what the ever-loving fuck?_

“Bahorel what are you talking about?” Feuilly demands indignantly.

Bahorel pouts, genuinely _pouts_ , and explains “Do you remember that girl from the bar a couple nights ago?” Before Feuilly has a chance to respond, Bahorel speed-rolls on, “Well, I worked all of my magic, used all of my charms, used the _smoulder,”_ and here Bahorel pauses to give Feuilly a prime example of the supposedly swoon-inducing look, “And she finally let me kiss her! And _then_ –”

“What she remembered she has standards?”

“Ha ha. No, she stopped and laughed at me and said I was a _bad kisser_. I mean, can you imagine, me? A bad kisser? Babe Bahorel? Bootylicious Bahorel–”

“Literally no one calls you any of those things.”

“So I thought I’d get you to set things straight. Ah, as it were.” And Bahorel finishes by flashing Feuilly what he believes is his winning smile and Feuilly isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry because this is certainly one clusterfuck of a situation. One that touches on too many of Feuilly’s actual emotions, and it’s a wonder how Bahorel hasn’t been able to pick up on them really–

 _Unless._ Unless he has? Feuilly quickly thinks back on Bahorel’s previous dates (which he knows about in _great detail_ , thanks Bahorel) and knows that literally none of his past partners have had any cause for complaint before. In fact, Feuilly remembers the girl from the bar, and distinctly remembers trying to look in a different direction than the corner in which she and his friend were making out. For like _an hour_. For some reason that doesn’t scream “lackluster kissing” to Feuilly. So that can only mean, what? Bahorel just wants an excuse to kiss him? But why wouldn’t he just come right out and say–

Feuilly wants to slap himself because, oh right, this is _Bahorel_ we’re talking about here. He loves games, and thinking he has the upper-hand. Well, Feuilly can play too.

“I don’t know ‘rel…” Feuilly starts coyly, staring nonchalantly at the television. “Say, how many drinks did you buy the lady at the bar?”

“Like, two?” Bahorel answers confusedly, not seeing where this is going.

“Well, then it’s only fair that you buy me two drinks as well. To have fair testing conditions and all.” Feuilly continues on with a faux-innocent expression.

“There’s beer in the fridge if you want it?” Bahorel offers, still looking adorably confused.

“Fridge beer?” Feuilly gasps, hand flying to his chest like the Southern belle he most certainly isn’t. “Oh no I demand to be _wooed_.” At this point he stands up from the couch and looks for his jacket, keys, and cigarettes. “And I believe I’m also due a certain _smoulder_.” Feuilly gets to the door before Bahorel demands “Wait, where are you going?”

“To the bar of course. Be there in an hour, wear something nice.” Leaving his roommate gaping, Feuilly exits the apartment, probably grinning from ear-to-ear but he can’t bring himself to care.

_I’ll kiss you, alright._


	3. Prompt: “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a drabble for Combeferre/Courfeyrac but I've decided to include it here to add more diversity to the overall work and keep all of my ficlets in one place. As always, enjoy!

It had become something of a tradition with them, living next door to each other from childhood, that whenever one of them got scared, the other would sneak into the other’s bedroom window, and stay there until the morning. Ofttimes it would be Courfeyrac who climbs into Combeferre’s room (because he always offered and _not_ because Combeferre is afraid of heights, okay?) but over the years they had both made the same journey enough for it to be second nature to find each other by now, like breathing. 

So be it horror films, fears about the future, or dark coats thrown thoughtlessly over chairs (”‘ _Ferre, I swear it looked like a monster!_ ”), the two boys, even when they became the two young men, would always be willing to make the climb when the other was scared. 

But it is a different kind of fear altogether that squeezes Combeferre’s heart painfully tight in his chest, that pushes him through the feeling of shame as he texts Courfeyrac the words that come almost without thinking:

**Come over?**

He decides to send a quick “Please”, because Combeferre, scared or not, was raised right and manners cost nothing. However, before he even gets the chance to hit ‘send’, Combeferre hears the soft ruffle of clothing as Courfeyrac climbs through his window. 

He feels an almost painful mix of emotions then, as the sight of the beautiful brown eyes and corkscrew curls of his friend serves to immediately comfort him, but he sobers instantly as he remembers why he called Courfeyrac over.

Before the other man can pull him into the usual bone-crushing hug he’s greeted with, Combeferre stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Courfeyrac for a moment looks confused but only asks gently, “What’s got you scared?”

Deciding that it’s now or never, Combeferre looks his friend directly in the eye and whispers simply, “Well… I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.” 

And before he knows it, he is being pulled into that bone-crushing hug after all, is calmed by the sound of laughter rumbling in Courfeyrac’s chest. “That’s nothing to be terrified of, silly! Maybe the amount of time it took you to figure it out was, but…” 

Combeferre straightens to snort indignantly, fully intending to say something like “ _Me? What about you, you could have_ said _something, honestly Courf’!_ ” but he finds himself suddenly unable to speak as Courfeyrac’s lips gently press against his own.

And well, Combeferre really can’t bring himself to complain.


	4. Prompt "Well, this is awkward"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up, this is mostly NSFW  
> Enjoy!

“Well this is awkward”. Bahorel manages to grit out through the embarrassed grimace that his mouth has decided to get itself stuck into.

“You think?” Feuilly barks, his glare burning holes through Bahorel’s head.

He’d usually give his best friend a light punch on the arm when he pissed Feuilly off, or raise his hands in a little placating gesture until all was forgotten.

Bahorel can’t really do either of those things now, considering one of his hands is wrapped around his dick.

You see, normally having Feuilly walking in on him wouldn’t be such a big deal - they’re roommates, it happens, and they both stammer awkwardly and refuse to ever mention it again like the very manly men they are - but this time is a little different.

Because Bahorel _may_ have been moaning Feuilly’s name.

Which _may_ have made Feuilly run into Bahorel’s bedroom to find out what was wrong and, well.

Now Bahorel’s a little pissed off that he’s going to die at the hands of his best friend who he just so happens to be kinda in love with.

Before he even got to finish.

“Bahorel, were you fucking _fantasising_ about me?” Feuilly demands, voice dangerously calm. Now, a shouting Feuilly is fine, shouting Feuilly Bahorel can deal with, as well as screaming, tackling and thrown punches. It’s when Feuilly gets deceptively calm that you’d be best moving to Canada or perhaps a cave where he can never find you and murder you with his elbow in six respective ways.

Bahorel has no qualms about admitting that he’s genuinely fucking terrified, as well as a little turned on still, so all he really manages is a small nod.

“How long has this been going on?” Feuilly asks in that same tone and that’s it, he’s a goner, he’s gonna have to entrust in Courfeyrac the role of insulting Grantaire’s beanie collection and infatuation with Enjolras, all on his own.

Deciding to just rip off the band-aid, and kinda hoping he’ll at least be allowed a last cigarette, Bahorel admits “A few weeks.”

“ _Weeks?_ ” Feuilly shrieks - the really is no other word for it - and Bahorel swears he sees the other man shake with rage. He actually walks in a quick circle, pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering angrily under his breath before coming to an abrupt stop before Bahorel’s bed. “You’re telling me, that for _weeks_ ,” Feuilly hisses, “You’ve been fantasising about me when we could have been fucking?”

“I know I’m so sorry-- Wait, _what?_ ” Bahorel is aghast, pretty sure his mind is playing tricks on him, because surely Feuilly didn’t just say--

Well the ginger isn’t saying anything now that he’s crushing his lips against Bahorel’s and hey, when did he even move onto the bed that sneaky bastard?

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let Feuilly have the upper-hand for too long, Bahorel quickly flips them over so he his affectively straddling his best friend. Boyfriend. Or whatever. Speaking of which--

“Are you serious about this?” Bahorel breaks off from their rough kiss to whisper.

Feuilly looks up at Bahorel, smiling sweetly and looking generally lovely.

The romantic affect is kinda shot to hell though when Feuilly firmly grabs Bahorel’s still half-hard dick and states simply, eyebrows raised “Does this seem serious to you?”

And Bahorel decides that there’s really no arguing with that.


End file.
